


The Rarest of Flowers Bloom in the Night

by Emery



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Commissioned Work, Father-Son Relationship, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Overprotective Father, Parent Thranduil, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:13:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emery/pseuds/Emery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Fingers decorated with precious gems and as soft as down swept over Legolas's face while Thranduil breathed, "Let me see your face, my sweet." Admiration dripped from his voice but admonishment burned in his eyes like venom. He would be certain that Legolas was aware of both. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>His thumb traced a single mark on the bridge of the prince’s nose. The cut wasn't deep, could have been treated by the most inexperienced in Elvish healing magic, but it was not the severity of the wound which tied Thranduil's heart in knots and crippled his pride.</i>
</p><p>When Legolas returns to Mirkwood, Thranduil is overwhelmed with relief but plagued with disappointment, as well. It will take much effort for Legolas to earn back his father's trust, but spending the night with him beneath the great canopy of Thranduil's bed is a start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rarest of Flowers Bloom in the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snkt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snkt/gifts).



> This fic was commissioned by [Aimée](http://banadino.tumblr.com). 
> 
> A short glossary of Elvish words used can be found in the end notes.

As the few pinholes of sunlight that managed to force their way through the forest’s trees disappeared, pushed away by the glimmer of starlight so coveted in Mirkwood, Thranduil requested counsel with his son. He had waited until he could smell the dusk approaching, despite the way his long, elegant fingers twitched and trembled with impatience. Much too long it had been since he had seen Legolas, his darling. The Elvenking's jaw clenched, and he gripped the arms of the chair he rested in while his toes curled in boots crafted from the finest and most pliable leather. Anger bubbled beneath his dreadfully calm exterior as he considered for the millionth time that day the way that Legolas had defied him. Such an act of disobedience would not happen again—Thranduil would ensure as much, one way or another.

The matter at hand, however, was more complex than simple disobedience. Thranduil feared for the dwindling of Legolas's own reason, feared that his son's heart was dominating his actions rather than his pristine, brilliant mind—the one Thranduil had cultivated from such a young age to be as sharp and cunning as his own. Thranduil took it to heart that Legolas was throwing all of that away in favor of following a whim, nothing but a disgustingly romantic trick that the elf Tauriel was spinning. Legolas was like a puppet, hanging from strings dangled from her unworthy fingers, and Thranduil would be damned sevenfold to hell and dragonfire before he would let his beloved Little Leaf fall into such a trap.

Nearly silent footsteps padded down the hall which led to the Elvenking's Great Chamber, a monster of a room with the finest of amenities at its disposal. The young elf’s movements had always been so quiet, but Thranduil's senses were not a force to be reckoned with, and he had learned the muted pattern of his son's gait long ago.

He stood from his chair, the train of his silver-blue robes gathering on the ground around his feet, and solidified his expression into one frozen and devoid of emotion. Legolas would not know of his father's anger, his father's anxiety, and his father's fear. Thranduil was to be a model to Legolas, and the model for the future Guardian of Mirkwood was one silent, unreadable, and firm. This composure was the one which Thranduil embraced and would retain, especially now when his son was in so much danger of diverging from his duties as princeling.

" _Ada_." The word rang like a bell in Thranduil's ears when Legolas took his first step into the chamber. It seemed like eons had passed since he had heard that voice—more than one night he had awoken from nightmares which whispered to him like dark curses, trying to convince him that he would never hear it again.

Thranduil breathed deeply through his nose before he allowed his eyes to open. A beautiful sight graced them—the sight of Legolas bent on one knee, head bowed so that the expanse of his pale hair shielded his face like a veil.

"Rise, _iȏn nin_. Rise, rise, rise, and come to me."

The words leaving Thranduil's thin lips held no malice as the king extended his arms to Legolas and held them wide open.

There was no missing the wave of relief that washed over Legolas's features when he lifted his head and the veil of hair was removed.

"You look as if you expected death," Thranduil said. His tone remained flat, making the poor attempt at humor even more undetectable.

Legolas couldn't have closed the distance between them soon enough. Thranduil's heart slammed against his ribcage in rhythm with each step that his son took towards him until they were united as one in a firm embrace. A tangled mass of emotions which Thranduil would never allow to surface stuck in his throat, so he was glad when Legolas broke the silence between them and chose to speak first.

"My apologies, _Ada_. There is truly no excuse for what I've—“

The fullness of his son's lips against Thranduil's finger was a sensation dearly missed. The king held his hand steady there, waited until Legolas closed his parted lips. "I know that your whole host of apologies belongs to me, as does the rest of you, Legolas. Would I be correct to assume that there's no need to speak of what remains obvious to us both?"

Legolas bowed his head again as Thranduil allowed his hands to wander down his son’s sides and finally rest at his hips. "Of course."

"I know I mustn't ever doubt your expertise," Thranduil began, and for the first time that evening, his voice wavered. "But your judgment, my darling, is another matter entirely. The world is full of battles, disgustingly rife with beings I wish not to let my mind linger upon. As a child of Mirkwood, and more importantly, Legolas, as a princeling, you must better learn to choose your battles. There are many, many things in which we are to remain uninvolved."

Thranduil watched carefully as the corners of Legolas's lips twitched and as his jaw trembled. It was obvious how badly he wanted to speak out against his father, to argue and to defend himself, but just as he had been taught, he chose silence.

The Elvenking smiled, an empty gesture barely noticeable but an attempt at kindness, nonetheless.

"You are a good child, Legolas. My child. My sweet princeling. I won't lose you."

Fingers decorated with precious gems and as soft as down swept over Legolas's face while Thranduil breathed, "Let me see your face, my sweet." Admiration dripped from his voice but admonishment burned in his eyes like venom. He would be certain that Legolas was aware of both.

His thumb traced a single mark on the bridge of the prince’s nose. The cut wasn't deep, could have been treated by the most inexperienced in Elvish healing magic, but it was not the severity of the wound which tied Thranduil's heart in knots and crippled his pride.

"To think," he mused, "that not only did you engage those filthy creatures in battle but that you also let one of them touch you, _mar_ you."

 _I’m ashamed_ , Thranduil would have said, had he not known that the shame was already obvious enough in his tone.

He turned Legolas’s face from side to side and narrowed his eyes, but the inspection yielded little result save for the pleasure of admiring Legolas's face up close—Thranduil had often wondered if the amount of time and attention he devoted to his son's features indicated some type of narcissistic addiction. He felt no guilt from the matter, certainly. To feel guilt was to not believe fully in the power of oneself, to be a lower being, and Thranduil was the farthest possible from such lack of worth.

Legolas yielded to every probe of his father's fingers, to Thranduil's great delight. It became more and more difficult to keep a smirk from curling one corner of his lips. Instead, the realm's leader distracted himself from the urge to bend into such an expression, choosing instead to pour forth a steady hiss of whispered sweet nothings and honey-laced compliments, sometimes so close that his breath caused his son's pointed ear to twitch. Azure eyes stared back at him, confident but ready to yield at a moment's notice. All it would take was a single murmured request or a hint of desire, and Legolas would be his. Thranduil treasured those eyes—his portal to another land. Mirkwood was a dark place, the trees allowing no tired Elvish eyes reprieve. There was no throwing one's head back to observe the clouds in the sky or to peer out at the glittering moon and its star servants in the dead of night.

Legolas was all the sky that Thranduil needed.

At last, he withdrew attention from Legolas's face, pleased to know that its marring was limited. Legolas was lucky, Thranduil thought wryly, avoiding the retrieval of memories he wished to forget. The wrath and ruin of dragonfire was no more in his land, but the agony of his ancient wounds was everpresent.

" _Ada_?"

Legolas's voice called to him, reached out and brought him back from a place in his heart growing darker by the day.

"Yes, my prince, I am here," Thranduil answered with rapidity, though it was too late to hide his lapse from Legolas—the princeling was much too observant, although Thranduil would be pleased no other way.

The king's fingers withdrew from Legolas's face only to weave a more complex path down his beloved's neck. Soft pads of nimble fingers ghosted along arteries and veins, pulsing beneath milky white skin, and Thranduil allowed himself the pleasure of leaning down to close his hungry mouth around one particularly sensitive spot of flesh.

His son's shallow gasp was music to his ears and an invitation for more which Thranduil undertook with much eagerness. He mouthed Legolas's bared neck, allowed his tongue to lap gently along the moistened skin, flicking around the smoothness and reducing even Legolas's trained and stoic body to a quivering heap. Legging-clad knees trembled, and Thranduil smiled against Legolas's neck. "You seem excited, my leafling. Are you?"

Legolas swallowed hard—Thranduil felt the bob in his throat with his tongue and lips while his hand descended to the collar of a particularly inhibitory tunic.

Thranduil had his answer, surely, but Legolas nodded his head once, out of courtesy.

"I expect that there's more to be seen, is there not?"

"My liege?"

"You did well to hide your limp, _iȏn nin_ , but not well enough to veil it from me. You were bested."

"No, _Ada_ , not bested."

Thranduil slipped his fingers between Legolas's neck and the collar of the tunic. The garment was well-made, the fibers strong, but little force was necessary to loosen the snaps and clasps until the tightly-fitting cloth fell away from Legolas's body.

"I want to see the rest of you."

The growl was low in Thranduil's throat as he pushed the fabric back from Legolas's shoulders and allowed his hands to slide across prominent clavicles and down biceps toned from years of strict development.

"Please.”

"Please, what? You wish to hide something from me?" A burning rose in Thranduil's chest. His stomach twisted at the thought of betrayal from his most trusted—but had Legolas not already betrayed his father by abandoning the safety that he and the dark forest offered? Thranduil pushed the unhappy musings from his mind and distracted himself once again with the planes of his son's body. Legolas would appear this way for hundreds of years, his youth perpetual and his heart beating, teeming with life. Those thoughts were better ones, the kind that Thranduil chose to occupy himself with. Legolas could be punished, but now was not the time.

"N-no, there is nothing."

The stammer in Legolas's voice was uncharacteristic, but Thranduil chose to believe that it was a result of his own lewd touches, his breath hot on the elfling's neck, and the light chafe of the tunic's fabric as it fell further down Legolas's body to expose his skin to the cool forest air.

Thranduil wove an intricate path down Legolas's body, forging his way from muscle to muscle with finger and mouth. He paused once to poke at one erect nipple with his tongue, to pant warm, humid air over the hollow in the younger elf's throat, to tangle his fingers into neatly braided hair.

"Then why do you hesitate, dove?"

Thranduil's inquiry was met with silence.

"Because you wish to hide these imperfections you've so recently acquired?"

The Mirkwood lord punctuated his question with a harsh bite near a particular patch of skin, a purpled and filthy deviation from what should have been a smooth, flawless tone. Just as Legolas's eyes were Thranduil's sky, his skin was the king's moonlight—to be marred with such dark craters, disgusting bruises where the diseased hands of an orc had marred godly perfection, was blasphemy.

Although the sound was quiet, Legolas cried out as Thranduil's jaws closed around skin already sensitive from previous blows.

"To think that you allowed such vile things to touch you at all, Legolas, much less _dominate_ you—“

"It won't happen again." Legolas was too quick to answer.

"We have discussed what it means to interrupt, my sweet."

"It is in-elegant," Legolas completed, and Thranduil smiled.

"Not suited for royalty, Legolas. At all times, you must exude calm. Ponder your actions. Consider your words." Thranduil only briefly acknowledged his hypocrisy. The advice was less important, he supposed, for a king with absolute power.

Legolas bowed his head and shrugged the tunic from his body so that it fell in elegant folds around his ankles.

"Your boots, too. And trousers. I want the rest of you."

Already, Thranduil's breath was coming in more shallow gasps as he struggled to control himself, and for the first time since his son had entered the Great Chamber, he removed himself from Legolas's person and turned instead towards the great canopied bed, decorated at the posts with the ripest of sweet berries and blossoming flowers—petals which burst forth only at night, in the darkness of Mirkwood, that could be found in no other place but that great room. His robe was discarded promptly, allowed to fall to the floor to be later retrieved by a chambermaid or some lesser elf.

"I would have you bathe, first," he mused, absentmindedly drawing the length of his hair over one shoulder and stroking out the few miniscule tangles with both hands. Braids did not adorn Thranduil's hair that evening, and his crown lay aside. Alone with Legolas in this chamber, he was indeed king, but he was also more. He was father, lover, protector, and darling. There were fewer secrets here and less of an aim to please. "But as my son I know you've had the sense to do so already."

"Likely not enough to cleanse the stench of Orc." Thranduil discerned the joke, Legolas's attempt to test the waters, even if the attempt was a poor one indeed.

"Then perhaps I will have to taint you with my own scent, _titta mine_."

For the first time that evening, Thranduil allowed a smile to accompany his words, and all at once the stormcloud which seemed to have gathered in the room, swirling its dark semblance around them, began to fade. The room felt more and more free as Thranduil relaxed. Legolas was home, now fully disrobed, and all was as it should be. Thranduil would be careful to make sure that Legolas did not abandon him again, through punishment but also through reward. Thranduil would devour Legolas, shower him with love so divine and with pleasure so captivating that never again would he desire to leave the wood.

When they fell backwards onto the impressive collection of blankets and pillows which lined every inch of Thranduil's sleeping place, the intensity with which their lips locked and their hands found refuge in each other's hair was nothing short of impressive.

"Too long, _Ada_."

"Whose fault is that, beloved?"

Legolas was silent, as he should have been. Thranduil's retort was pointed, but nonetheless softened by the way his lips moved so perfectly in sync with his son's.

Time slowed, and Thranduil felt every nerve in his body unravel, every ounce of stress and tense muscle relax as he watched Legolas throw his head back, silvery-blond hair strewn across the silken sheets like a galaxy of its own. He hovered over his son, knees planted on either side of Legolas's slim hips, and waited for Legolas to make his own desires known because there was nothing better than hearing his precious princeling beg for what he wanted.

"You know that I am not pleased with you," Thranduil clarified as Legolas was permitted his own turn to suck and taste of his father's neck. “But nonetheless, I cannot help but spoil you.”

Legolas would not be interrupted in his work, and thus his response was little more than a grunt around the patch of smooth skin beneath his mouth. It was his own way of saying that nothing more needed to be said, or so Thranduil imagined. It was hard to envision his son as one rebellious, but already he had been forced to come to terms with the idea while Legolas had been outside of his home’s protection.

“You understand that punishment will come.” Thranduil’s words were more of a statement than a question. “But,” he continued more gently, “It is not this night.”

Thranduil’s fingers found purchase tangled in the golden strands of Legolas’s hair, tugging on the locks and loosening the braids that had once been neat and tight. Nails found their way into the soft skin of Legolas’s abdomen, as well, scratching and clawing with no regard for the bruises and sore spots left as a grim reminder of his disobedience.

“This night,” Thranduil breathed. “This night is ours, my little bird. This night is to remind us of our unity and our affection for one another so that we might never part again, as we have done.” Vague threats were cleverly twisted into the words, and with each one Legolas’s grip on his father became stronger and more desperate, as if to prove a point—his allegiance was eternal.

Thranduil let him have his way and was satisfied with the roughness of Legolas’s grip around his member, the way that teeth sunk hungrily into unmarred flesh. With every harsh motion and every excessive display of affection, Thranduil felt his own heart leap—finding sweet satisfaction in the assumption that the harshness of Legolas’s movements were guilt-driven, perhaps an attempt to fall back into his father’s favor with lust on his lips and desperation on his fingers.

The warmth of Legolas’s fingers as they slid just right along Thranduil’s member made the king’s stomach turn, and he let his lips fall slack as a moan rose from deep in his throat. His world was a foggy haze surrounding him when he offered Legolas two of his fingers to suck, coating them with saliva that would make the evening more comfortable. He felt himself harden in Legolas’s grasp while the growing heat of arousal swallowed him up, flames licking at the most sensitive areas of flesh while blood bubbled beneath his skin and dark flushes rose to his cheeks, his ears, his cock.

Thranduil pushed inside, and upon seeing the look of rapture on Legolas’s face, all was forgiven.

As he had his way and cherished again his son’s closeness to him, he tore his eyes from the beautiful young elf to briefly rest his gaze on one of the flowers blossoming at the top of a gnarled, wooden bedpost. He grinned, kept his rhythm controlled and steady, and could think of nothing else but his prince as he watched the flower blossom in the dim light. Legolas, too, would learn his lessons as he grew. Something great would be made of him—of this Thranduil was certain.

How could Legolas _not_ become something great?

 _He is my son, after all_. _My precious prince._

**Author's Note:**

>  _Ada_ : father
> 
>  _iȏn nin_ : my son
> 
>  _titta mine_ : little one


End file.
